


Kel Maleh Rachamim

by RevyDutch



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Baby Mercy, Funeral, Jewish, Mercy - Freeform, Sad, Young Mercy, bby mercy, but not too sad ok, funeral tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 11:33:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8284357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RevyDutch/pseuds/RevyDutch
Summary: Angela Ziegler is seven years old, far too young to be standing in the viewing room of a funeral home.
(Based on the Jewish!Mercy headcanon)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Kel Maleh Rachamim is one of the prayers said at Jewish funerals that literally translates to "Prayer of Mercy". It's also recited during Shiva services during the week and during Yahrzeits (The anniversary of death). It's the prayer you see the Rabbi speaking in this fic. 
> 
> Jewish!Mercy is a headcanon near and dear to me, and I will protect this headcanon with my life okay like, listen: With a last name like Ziegler, she HAS to be Jewish (don't fight me on this. Someone tried and ended up being incredibly anti-semetic bc gasp! JEWS CAN HAVE GERMAN LAST NAMES TOO WHAT A CONCEPT).
> 
> Anyways, ENJOY!

Angela Ziegler is the centre of attention, as she always is, put up on some sort of pedestal, but not glamoured by all. Instead, she’s the centre of concern, being doted on by aunts, uncles, cousins, the only Bubbie she has left, and the intimidating child services agent in the corner. 

Angela Ziegler is seven years old, far too young to be standing in the viewing room of a funeral home, too small and having to be  _ held up _ by those aunts, uncles, cousins and Bubbie, to look at the cold bodies of people she knows to be her parents. 

Her face is as stone-cold as they are. Her family doesn’t understand it. She doesn’t either. She doesn’t understand why she doesn’t cry like her father’s brother does, hands over his face as he collapses on the ground. She doesn’t understand why her mother’s sister, tears streaming down her eyes as she screams her mourns, has to be held back by her wife as she flails. She doesn’t understand anything that’s happening and wants to run away, run back to what she knows and what’s familiar.

So she reaches out for her mother’s cheek, and everyone stops. It’s frozen, but soft as the skin has already started deteriorating. It feels wrong, so she reaches out for her father’s hair, trying to remember the times she laughed at how red it was compared to her and her mother. 

It feels just as wrong.

She asks to be let down, and scurries back to a corner she claimed hours ago. She pulls out her tablet and tries to let herself be distracted by the colours and wonders her favourite show projects at her. She tries to be seven, just for a moment, for as long as she can. 

Because she doesn’t know how much longer she’ll be allowed to.

Angela Ziegler doesn’t understand why it’s taken so  _ long _ to even be here. When Zayde died, they buried him within two days. When other Bubbie died, it took the weekend because of Shabbat. Why would her parents get two weeks? She knows the “Omnic Crisis” (a phrase overheard from the grown-ups) had to be quelled enough to even do a funeral, but she already doesn’t understand why all she knew was different. 

She starts to wonder if, in death, they’re okay with this, or if they feel humiliated. She heard her uncle say that once when Zayde died. Insisting he be buried as soon as they could. She doesn’t want her parents to feel this, not now, not ever. 

_ The tablet screen shows a bright character, an anthropomorphic mascot from some children’s show, smiling and singing behind colourful flowers and a vast, blue sky- _

She’s being pushed out of the room now, nudged by her aunts, uncles, cousin and Bubbie. She’s still holding her tablet, wondering how long she’ll be allowed to be distracted by it. The grown-ups don’t know either, quietly arguing between themselves. Angela has always hated the arguing, the debates warred over Shabbat dinners and Passover Seders. She’d cover her ears as the grown-ups shouted opinions, sometimes leading to laughter, sometimes leading to silence, just trying to hide it all.

Now, she wonders if she’ll even have those anymore, and feels more comfortable than she’s been all day hearing the grown-ups fight. She decides on her own to turn off the tablet.

_ An elderly, wise looking man dressed formally with a Kippot on his head approaches the podium, looking solemnly at the crowd, his eyes tracing the room until they fall on- _

Angela holds on tightly to her aunt’s arm, her mother’s sister vaguely reminding her of her mother’s warmth. She can’t even look the Rabbi in the eye as he scans the crowd, looking down and away as she hugs her aunt’s arm even tighter. She closes her eyes as the Rabbi begins to speak.

As he begins with a soliloquy about life, death, and the world, Angela sees nothing but her family. For now, their faces are clear, and she can see them smile avast a brisk wind. Her father, with his red hair, reaches out for her to follow. Angela smiles back, looking wonderful at him with the blue eyes they share. She grabs his hand-

And then she opens her eyes as the explosions return. They haunt her every night, every moment, trapping her in an endless cycle of pain, loss, and longing for something she barely understands she cannot have. She barely understands why this is even happening, why this is hurting her, why this cycle exists. 

It’s now, she finally starts to tear up as the destruction hits her and she remembers. She cries understanding now why her uncle says his brother may not be buried clean. Though his wife says it's an honour, Angela doesn’t really think so. She looks over to her aunts, uncles, cousins and Bubbie and starts to understand why they wear cloth over their chests, why she bears one too, the black cloth putting a sting in her heart where it lays. 

The Rabbi starts to speak in a language unfamiliar, reciting prayers she wish she knew. She was supposed to start Hebrew School in September, she was supposed to start  _ everything _ in September, but it was now March and she’d never stepped foot in a school. She doesn’t understand much, but she understands the  _ longing _ to understand, the longing to recite these traditions with whatever is left of her family.

She starts to cry more because she wants to  _ know _ , because she is seven, and she is lost. 

“Mama…” she quietly whimpers, hugging her aunt’s arm tighter. The crowd turns to her, and Angela feels smaller than she already is to the grown-ups. Her aunt’s wife gives them a glare to back off, and her aunt pats her head and soothes her down. It’s kind of nice, Angela thinks, her aunt’s touch reminding her of her mother’s as she lays her head on her arm. She closes her eyes again.

_ The Rabbi calls upon her uncle to speak on his brother, and more tears and laughs are spread amongst the crowd.  _

Angela is in the city, holding tightly to her mother’s hand. She looks up to see her golden hair tied up the same as hers, holding an ice cream they’re sharing. She sees storefronts with dresses in one, and scientific microscopes the next, and is thrilled her mother lets her see both. She’s happy and warm, their smiles-

Cut off by the warplanes and sirens, the catastrophic Omnics blowing up all she knows. She turns another moment and she’s covered in blood not her own. The hand she’s holding belonging to a severed arm, and she realizes now the blood is her mother’s. She wants to scream-

But back in the real world, all she can do is blankly stare. She doesn’t deserve this, she doesn’t want this. She’s  _ seven _ and she’s starting to feel old, but as confused as she should. Her mind starts to hurt, she wants to cover her ears and escape like for all those arguments. 

“ _ Al molay rachamim, shochayn bam’romim, _ ” the Rabbi begins to say as Angela starts to hear those around her recite this prayer with him. She feels a need to participate, but she doesn’t know how. As those around her murmur the prayer she mouths along something with them, she feels that's the right thing to do. Her aunt looks down at her and smiles to see that she’s trying, and Angela feels that she’s right to do this, that maybe she’s catching on.

Suddenly, as the Rabbi finishes up his prayer, a sudden hush falls on the crowd as the doors to the sanctuary suddenly open a crack. Angela figures there are latecomers, she hopes everyone else figures too. 

She is thrown off when there’s an Omnic at the door, wearing a  _ Kippot _ , looking as confused as those Omnics can. 

“O-Oh,” The Omnic says bashfully with it’s cybernetic voice. “I-I have the wrong-”

“ _ Murderer! _ ” Someone shouts from the crowd. Angela can’t tell who it is, if it’s her aunts, uncle, cousins or Bubbie. Suddenly, she hears it more and more, various snarls of accusal and threats of death. She sees someone throw something at the Omnic, sees someone else stand up and start to go towards it. 

Angela wants to do something,  _ anything _ , but she’s frozen. Her aunt’s wife stands up to try and quell the impending riot, her uncle holds her close to protect her from whatever’s about to happen. She wants to cry, she wants to scream, she wants all of this to  _ stop _ -

Then she remembers. She sees her father with his messy red hair and bright blue eyes. She feels her mother with her soft skin and warm touch. She remembers the way they protected her, the way they always protected others. Whether it be on the street or at the hospital they tirelessly worked, they always rescued, and they were always brave.

So Angela stands up, and the crowd goes quiet. She walks towards the Omnic, looks at them as they quiver in fear, then opens her arms wide into an embrace. 

The crowd is silenced in confusion and shock. This girl, she’s seven, she’s  _ seven _ and she’s at a  _ funeral _ for her parents, taken by these… hell, no one in the room even really knows anymore. The Omnic collapses to the ground and hugs the little girl back, emitting sounds similar to crying. 

“I’m sorry,” Angela whispers to the Omnic. “The grown-ups are just angry.”

“I get it,” The Omnic replies. “I lost my pa-creator to those… monsters. I’d probably do the same if I were...”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re human or not, Mama and Papa…” Angela turns around to the caskets, and starts to sniffle. “Mama and Papa always protected everyone.”

The Omnic cries and hugs Angela tighter. Of all the things happening today,  _ this _ is something Angela understands. She understands what her parents fought for, what her parents  _ lived _ for. She knows what they wanted her to be, and she knows how to remember them. She understands that she doesn’t have to be sad, she understands that she can be scared, but she understands that she doesn’t have to grow up.

“But I mean,” She smiles and points at the Omnic’s  _ Kippot _ , realizing it's something familiar. “You’re just like me!” She giggles.

The Omnic laughs and pats the little girl on the head. The grown-ups return to their seats and realize the same. Angela is too young to fully understand  _ why _ they revolt, why they shout names throw painful things, but she knows she doesn’t have to do that. She knows

She understands that she’s only seven, and if there’s anything she can do right now, it’s this, and she feels a bit less lost.

**Author's Note:**

> The basic idea with this fic is that a) Mercy is a natural born helper, like her parents b) If an Omnic is created by a Jew, would they be Jewish (GIVE ME JEWISH OMNIC CULTURE PLEASE AND THANK YOU)? and c) Jewish unity. The idea I was trying to get across was not just that Mercy would help out anyone in need (including an Omnic), but also Jews are Jews no matter what skin they come in? Sometimes kids understand this concept better than adults. 
> 
> There's also a brief idea of the not-controlled Omnics being against the ones who have gone haywire, also considering them murderers.
> 
> The "Not buried clean" thing refers to the fact that Jews are not cleaned before they are buried if there is blood on them (or something like that, I had to do a bit of research myself on this). However, its considered an honour. 
> 
> Here's a quick glossary of the Jewish terms in this fic:
> 
> Kippot - also known as "Kippah" or "Yarmulke", its a skullcap that's a traditional headcovering for men. Worn in Synagogue, its also worn during other religious events such as funerals and holidays. Orthodox men wear this full time, some Conservative and Reform women have started wearing them during services as well.
> 
> Bubbie - Yiddish term for "Grandmother"
> 
> Zayde - Yiddish term for "Grandfather"
> 
> Rabbi - Literally translates to "Teacher", is the leader of the service.
> 
> Please feel free to ask any questions if you're confused about any of the Jewish things in this fic! Hope y'all enjoyed~


End file.
